Sunday, March 29, 2015

Hands (inspired by Sandy Frank)

Perhaps the fingers of one’s hands are the artist’s fluttering pennants of promise – forever striving and restless like the beating wings of an imprisoned bird.

Maybe if hands could speak they would take on the voice of a wise old man. You must try to forget all you have learned, they would say. You must begin to dream. For we don’t yet know the happiness to be found in hands, in the same way we might savor the sight of daisies in a field, or the sound of snow falling at night. Outside my window, dogs bark for no reason. Inside my teacup, what comes warm is good warm.


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